


A Bell Rings

by flamiekitten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fanart, M/M, Wingfic, Winglock, Wings, angel!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamiekitten/pseuds/flamiekitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been noticing some unusual things about John Watson, but when the source is very suddenly and unexpectedly revealed, his reaction is a bit less than positive -- for Sherlock may not be on the side of the angels, but that doesn't mean he's lacking a guardian one...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bell Rings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [General_Button](https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/gifts).



> Beta'd by the ever-wonderful [hosekisama](http://hosekisama.tumblr.com).
> 
> This was written as a part of the [Johnlock Challenge](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/) for [mycrofthholmes](http://mycrofthholmes.tumblr.com).
> 
> Art (as seen at the end of the fic) was done by the highly talented artists [navydream](http://navydream.tumblr.com) and [inchells](http://inchells.tumblr.com) (respectively) and both were commissioned for me by an amazing friend, [lady-macphisto](http://lady-macphisto). There is also a piece of fanart by the glorious [justaholmesboy](http://justaholmesboy.tumblr.com), who is simply too fantastic for words.

The first time Sherlock noticed something was not quite right happened during a case. 

It started out normally enough: a dead body on the basement floor of an abandoned block of flats surrounded by members of a puzzled forensics team who were all harping on about the impossible nature of the crime. In a few minutes Sherlock was kneeling down beside the body with his pocket magnifier out (Caucasian female, approximately eighteen years old, heavy substance abuser) and half a beat later John was kneeling beside him. Sherlock’s eyes briefly flicked over to note John’s expression (discomfort and pity with a strong sense of resolve, naturally) and more for John’s sake than his own, Sherlock asked for his professional opinion on the nature of the young woman’s death. 

John, as Sherlock had known he would, was happy to take the opportunity to distance himself emotionally from the scenario by propelling into a brief post-mortem analysis, looking at Sherlock for his approval when he eventually ran out of steam. Sherlock didn’t smile, but he nodded very slightly; John’s diagnosis matched up with his own (more or less) and helped to further cement his own deductions. Not that they’d needed much help, but confirmation was always welcome.

It wasn’t without some pleasure that Sherlock then stood and quickly launched into explaining the precise details of the young woman’s death and how she came to be in the building. He could see John standing up beside him out the corner of his eye, but he could feel the awe rolling off of him in waves. Sherlock smirked, concluding with a little flourish.

“Brilliant,” John murmured at his side. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if anyone else had said it, but somehow John’s ability to be impressed with his deductions each and every time never felt tedious or —

There was a brief pressure on his shoulder, not unlike the brush of a hand. Sherlock stiffened and glanced over to his right, but there was nothing there. He shook his head and dismissed the sensation. And in any case, no one noticed his frozen expression, as they were all busy corroborating the facts that Sherlock had provided for them. Not even John noticed; _he_ was too busy checking things over with Lestrade. Sherlock’s presence at the crime scene was quickly slipping towards being dull and unnecessary. He thanked Lestrade for wasting his time (yet again) and then turned heel and left. He could hear John stammering an apology behind him, but that was nothing new. Dependable old John.

Sherlock forgot about the “touch” for now. Not enough data — too random, too brief, too singular. An anomaly. He filed it away in a little cabinet in a room dedicated to open-ended observations, for later retrieval if necessary. 

\---

The second incident didn’t occur until some days later. John and Sherlock were sat together in a little-known Indian restaurant that had become a favourite of theirs as of late. Lestrade hadn’t provided Sherlock with a case since the previous one — apparently he was taking Sherlock’s scathing remark to heart this time and attempting to let the Yard solve their own cases for a little while. Naturally, it was having the opposite of the desired effect on Sherlock; the only thing worse than a boring case was no case at all. 

As he didn’t have to dedicate precious brainpower to a case, however, Sherlock actually found himself eating everything on his plate. He didn’t say much, graciously allowing John the opportunity to talk about his day at work, which was usually a fairly dull topic of conversation but tonight made entertaining by John’s enthusiastically-told story about a patient with a “mystery illness” that nobody in the entire clinic could work out no matter how many diagnosis trials they put the patient through. That is, nobody could until the patient was handed over to John, who then pointed out a very simple and obvious diagnosis technique that everyone else had neglected to try. Lo and behold, the patient was diagnosed and put on the appropriate treatment program. 

Surprising him, Sherlock actually smiled and made a soft sound of amusement at John’s part in the anecdote, finishing his final forkful of rice and then placing the cutlery on his plate. John seemed to glow at this tiny acknowledgement; he had the ability to thrive off of even the tiniest amounts of praise.

“And you applied the correct process, yes? Reduced all of the options down until the only viable one presented itself to you?” Sherlock asked, that small smile still playing at the corners of his lips. John swallowed a mouthful of food and then grinned with a nod of obvious pride.

“Yeah, all of that. I mean, it was obvious really; they just didn’t put two and two together.”

“The same can be said for virtually everyone,” Sherlock said with a roll of the eyes, pressing his fingertips together and resting his elbows on the table just as John enjoyed a final few forkfuls of food. “However, it would seem that you are picking up some constructive habits from me after all, even if that was only a very small example. Could prove useful. Good.”

John set his cutlery down and was beaming now, soaking up the hints of praise just as Sherlock knew he would. Once again, he appeared to be glowing, which Sherlock had always thought of as being a ridiculous metaphor because of course people don’t actually _glow_ when they’re happy, but —

Sherlock frowned, gaze darting back and forth between the spaces above both of John’s shoulders. There was a shimmer there, like heat haze, only instead of merely distorting the air behind him it seemed to be forming a distinct shape with silvery-white whorls — like John actually _was_ glowing. Or, at least, the air _around_ him was.

“Sherlock…?” John asked cautiously. “What is it?” he then said, a little more instantly, as Sherlock actually got to his feet so that he could lean closer, eyes narrowing as he continued to stare. John glanced behind him, trying to see what it was that Sherlock was looking at so very intently, but there was nothing that caught his eye. “Hello?” he said, as he turned back around again.

“It’s…” Sherlock began, still staring, brain working hard to process _what_ it was that he was staring at exactly, but then… it was gone. “… Nothing,” he concluded with a frown on his face as he sat back down in his chair. 

“Right,” John replied sceptically, lifting one eyebrow. “Weren’t you just complimenting me on my deductive skills?” he then asked, face relaxing as he went back to smiling again. Sherlock would never understand how somebody could put an unusual event straight to the back of their minds like that; surely an anomaly would capture their —

Just thinking the word “anomaly” instantly opened the cabinet wherein he’d stored the information about the “touch” from before. Interesting. He had no way of telling if these two events were linked (yet) but there was always the possibility…

“Hm?” he said, clearly distracted, when he finally noticed that John was looking at him, obviously looking for an answer. “Oh, you’ve had your fill,” he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. John continued to smile, however, completely unfazed.

“The same could never be said for you. Come on, let’s pay and head home- I think one of the Bond films is on Four tonight. A Connery.”

“Tedious,” Sherlock immediately said, but he got to his feet nonetheless and allowed John to handle the bill whilst he shrugged his coat on.

Yet more information to be filed away into that cabinet… but this time the drawer in his mind wasn’t entirely closed on the matter. John clearly wasn’t paying the incident any heed (then again, Sherlock _did_ have a habit for doing quirky or unusual things that didn’t seem to make much sense) but Sherlock couldn’t get it out of his mind. His brain was insisting that the two happenings were _connected_ , somehow, and as much as he hated relying on instinct over cold, hard fact he was inclined to agree – but the question was indeed _how_? 

\--- 

And then, for three whole weeks, absolutely nothing happened. No cases and no little oddities of any nature. Sherlock gave up, cast off the previous two “incidents” as unrelated flukes, and then settled down into the typical slump associated with long periods without something big to focus his energy on. John, as per usual, spent the first week wasting time on trying to get Sherlock to do something “fun” or “constructive” (neither of which equalled board games, in Sherlock’s firm opinion) and then eventually just came to terms with it. 

Sherlock spent most of his time lying prostrate on the sofa with his phone clasped in his long fingers and an eye on his email inbox. The desire for a case was an unrelenting itch, a thorn in his side that no amount of pointless experiments, research for blog posts, or sweeping violin crescendos could dislodge. John took to just ensuring that Sherlock ate at least once a day and quietly making two cups of tea every time he visited the kettle, keeping his “idle chatter” (Sherlock got offensive when he was bored, John had duly noted) to a minimum and occasionally trying to tempt Sherlock with a small-time case “just to pass the time until a big one comes along”. All attempts were futile.

The three weeks of what was definitely _not_ “moping” or “sulking” no matter what a certain John Watson might have to say came to an abrupt and very happy end at around 7pm one Friday night when a sudden buzz in Sherlock’s hands announced the arrival of a text message. John looked up from the newspaper he had been reading with a tentatively hopeful expression on his face as Sherlock tossed the phone up into the air, neatly caught it, and then flipped it so that the screen was facing him. After the little display of (unnecessary) theatrics, he finally pressed the button that would pull up the message.

John had to try very hard not to let out a sigh of relief at the grin that quickly spread across Sherlock’s face. 

“Get your coat, John,” Sherlock announced as he jumped (no, leapt) to his feet with a sudden burst of energy. “Oh, and don’t forget your gun,” he added with an almost conspiratorial wink as he swept about for his own coat and scarf. “We have a killer to catch.”

\---

“So where did you get the information about this one, then?” John asked as they walked casually along towards their destination. 

“Anonymous tipoff,” Sherlock said with a slight sniff. When John threw him a quizzical look he quickly smirked. “Mycroft, of course.”

“You’re taking a case from Mycroft?” John laughed. “You _must_ have been bored.” 

“It’s an _interesting_ case,” Sherlock retorted, tilting his head upwards with a clear expression of distaste. “Unlike the usual fodder he offers me. The text contained details of five major assaults on various people of political power over the past three weeks, all seemingly unrelated save from the DNA evidence left behind at every scene.”

“DNA evidence?” John repeated. “Then why haven’t they been arrested already?”

“Because the person who the DNA matched with had been living in Dubai for the past seven years.”

“Oh. So what’s changed, then?”

“ _That_ person is now dead.”

John stopped in his tracks, looking thoroughly bewildered as he tried to sort through the limited facts he’d been given. Sherlock waited, fairly patiently, with a small twitch of the lips as he waited for John to come to some kind of conclusion.

“And none of the people who were assaulted could give a description of their attacker?”

“None of them are currently conscious enough to do so.”

“And I guess we want to catch our guy before he strikes again?”

“That would be preferable.”

“So do we have any kind of clue to work off of?”

“We do.”

A moment’s silence passed as John processed this new information.

“Has… some different DNA been left this time?” he eventually hazarded a guess. 

“Correct. Well done John,” Sherlock said with a chuckle, beginning to walk again with John quickly falling back in step. “Richard Cromley, who was also another relatively important political figure, was forced to return to London when his DNA started cropping up in these assault cases. He was then murdered in his hotel room just an hour ago.”

“So is the new DNA the killer’s, or “unrelated” again?” John asked.

“That’s where we come in – or, to be more accurate, I,” Sherlock replied. “The _new_ DNA matches another man in politics, one Thomas Harrison, whose apartment is located in the block just at the end of this street. The police don’t know about the murder or the new DNA sample yet; Mycroft obviously wants to keep this under wraps as much as possible for the moment. Wouldn’t do for the public to catch wind of assaults and murders within the circle of people that are supposed to be leading our country, would it?”

“Suppose not,” John said with a bit of a grin. “So what are we going to be doing? Having a sneak about the house to see if this new guy is our killer; or the next victim?”

“ _I_ will be doing the sneaking,” Sherlock said, voice dropping a bit as he tilted his head to indicate that they should turn down the next alleyway. “ _You_ , John, will be staying put right here. I have it on good authority that our killer or, yes, victim, is currently out, so if you could just send me a text if it looks like Mr. Harrison is approaching then that would be _very_ useful.”

And before John could utter a word of protest or, indeed, ask what this man even _looked_ like, Sherlock was suddenly ascending the fire escape with his ridiculous acrobatic skills, leaving John stood in the middle with a very strong case of déjà vu. He sighed and went to lean on the brick wall that faced the fire escape, watching Sherlock’s ascent and break-in (if it could even be called that; as far as John could see Sherlock just passed through the window and was in) with a frown on his face. Even though he supposed lookout was an important role to play in cases such as this, he never felt like he was doing anything constructive unless something actually happened.

The slow minutes ticked on by, with John carefully glancing around the corner of the alleyway and then left and right down the street, phone in hand and gun in inner breast pocket. It was nearing 8pm now and the streets of this middle-upper class area were practically deserted. John continually checked his watch to find that only a minute had passed by since the last check, and still nothing.

“Come on…” John muttered under his breath, but he wasn’t quite sure whether he was referring to Sherlock or the man whose home he had broken into. He glanced up at the apartment block again, tilting his head to try and look through the window Sherlock had disappeared into, but the angle was all wrong. It had been ten minutes, what if something had happened to Sherlock? 

_No sign of him. Everything okay? –JW_

He sent the text and then went back to looking at the street. Still nothing, nothing, nothing…

Then, suddenly, there was a loud bang from up above. John’s hand instantly lifted, heading towards his inner pocket. He waited; tense and ready for action and prepared to try and leap up to grab the bottom rung of the fire escape’s ladder if he had to. Sixty seconds passed in time with the flutter of John’s heart, and just as he was about to try and make that leap he spied movement. He breathed out a sigh of relief as he saw Sherlock emerge, quite calmly, from the same window he’d entered through and begin to descend down the escape again. His hand slowly dropped away from his jacket as he visibly relaxed.

“You gave me a bloody heart-attack,” he said with a short laugh as Sherlock jumped down to the ground and came over to him. Sherlock rolled his eyes at that.

“Really now, John,” he said. “If you’d listened more carefully you would have realised that the noise came from the apartment _below_ the one I was investigating. A family with several small children; no doubt one of them ran into a piece of furniture or –”

“All right, all right,” John interrupted, tone just a tad on the exasperated side. “You’ve made your point. But did you find anything?” 

“Hm,” Sherlock replied non-committedly. “Nothing relevant stood out to me, but if this man _is_ our killer then he’s proved to have at least _some_ intelligence with the fake DNA trail, so he could be covering up his tracks a little better than most. I believe I’ll have to request more dat –”

Sherlock paused and whipped around to face the entrance to the alleyway, but it was too late; somebody was standing there.

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “So it _is_ him, then.” 

“I didn’t think it’d be long before your brother set you on me, Holmes,” the man said, stepping a bit closer with an obvious scowl on his face. 

“Cock up on the Cromley murder, did we?” Sherlock asked in tones that John decided were far too relaxed for the situation. “Or did you leave us your DNA on purpose this time? Bit silly of you.”

“We’re not doing this, Holmes; the chatting thing whilst you work out your escape plan. Sorry, but I’m a busy man.”

Harrison (it was him, of course) took a step forwards and John instantly stiffened, eyes darting between the man’s face and his hands. His heart started thudding, hammering away in his chest with an accompanying rush of blood in his ears. Did he have a concealed weapon- or was he planning on just launching straight into a physical fight? That would be stupid, considering it was two against one. John could almost hear the roll of Sherlock’s eyes over the exasperated little sigh he exhaled.

“Aren’t you even going to give me a completely pointless and long-winded explanation about –”

“You’re just as insufferable as your sodding brother.”

The words were bitterly spat, and then Harrison made his move; the dart of a hand towards his coat pocket. He was still too far away for a knife to be of any use, and was that the tell-tale shape of a gun? John’s mind raced. Harrison would aim for Sherlock, not him. But Sherlock was just standing there, not moving – why?!

_Sod it_ , John thought, his hand lurching towards his own inner pocket even as he dived for Sherlock. They crashed together, Sherlock landing quite heavily on his back with John’s body entirely shielding him, one hand flat on the ground beside Sherlock’s head for support. Even though the impact knocked the wind out of him somewhat, John retained enough wit about him to swivel his gun in the direction of where Harrison had been standing. His mouth dropped open when all he saw was a flash of rapidly retreating shoes as the man darted around the corner.

As soon as Sherlock’s back had hit the floor, he’d hissed with pain and squeezed his eyes tight shut. He could hear the swish and click as John readied his gun, but of course, there were the hurried footsteps as Harrison made his escape… Sherlock sighed, exasperated, and began to open his eyes again as he berated John for his foolish actions.

“Oh John you _idiot_ \- the man was bluffing, the gun wasn’t even _loaded_ –”

Sherlock’s words died in his mouth, choked off by a loud gasp as all coherent thought completely fled from his mind. John instantly glanced down, his face a picture of worry and confusion, but Sherlock was hardly focusing on his _expression_ when it was what was _behind_ John that had completely robbed Sherlock of his ability to rationalise. 

_Wings_. Huge, sweeping wings made of bright, silvery light and rustling feathers that rose from John’s back and curved around towards Sherlock in a clearly protective motion. They were so close that all Sherlock had to do was lift a hand and then he could _touch_ them –

“Sherlock?” John’s voice cut into his daze, sharp and bewildered. “What are you staring a – oh, _shit_.” 

Realisation had clearly sunk in as John quickly leapt back, the wings snapping closed as he retreated a few steps further into the alleyway. Though his battered body ached in protest, Sherlock also scrabbled to his feet, eyes blown wide, his gaze unable to break from staring at the pair of lightly glowing, feathered appendages. They were still there. He could still see them.

“Sherlock, look,” John began to say, all in a rush, as Sherlock began to take almost mindless-looking steps towards him. “I can explain, I can explain _everything_ , but not here, let’s just get ho – _Sherlock_!” John’s voice took on a bit of a panicked note, his hands lifting in front of his chest, palms flat –defensive, scared. Sherlock knew that he was frightening him with his continuous advance as he herded him further and further down the alleyway, but his mind was alight and completely consumed by what he was seeing. Wings, _wings_ , John had _wings_ – “Sherlock, _stop_. Right, that’s it.”

And before he could even react, John was suddenly leaping forwards towards him and pressing his hands to Sherlock’s head, palms cupping his temples and thumbs pressing into his forehead and –

Blank. Everything went blissfully blank. Sherlock crumpled back down to the ground.

\---

When he finally came to, he was sprawled out on his bed back at home on Baker Street, still dressed in his clothes from the night before sans coat, scarf, and shoes. He glanced at the window, noting the particles of dust twisting and curling in the light that was shining through the crack in the imperfectly-drawn curtains. Late morning bordering on early afternoon. He’d been out of it for the entire night.

For a moment Sherlock just lay there, head on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling with a slight frown on his face as he laboriously rebooted his mind. He’d experienced sudden crashes before, his body failing due to lack of sleep even when his mind insisted it would be fine to carry on, and so just required a moment to replay the events from just before the crash in order to gather his thoughts.

It all came back to him in a sudden rush. He sat bolt upright on his bed before leaping out and running into the living room. It was a Saturday, John didn’t work on Saturdays, where was John –

“John – ?” he called, voice booming as he whirled around the living room. “John, where are y –”

“I’m here, I’m here, just stop bloody shouting!” John snapped, emerging out of the kitchen with a mug of tea in each hand and an exasperated expression on his face. 

Sherlock immediately stopped spinning about and just stood where he was and started staring hard at John, who, much to Sherlock’s irritation, was now allowing his expression to go carefully blank. Well, John could look as innocent as he pleased; Sherlock _knew_ what he’d seen, even if there was a decidedly empty space around John’s shoulders now.

“Don’t bother hiding them,” he said, voice perhaps a little bit harsher than he’d intended it to be. When John opened his mouth, clearly to object or make some kind of excuse, Sherlock quickly shook his head with a frown. “And _don’t_ ,” he said, very clearly, eyes narrowing slightly. “Pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. That’d be both pointless and _unbelievably_ boring. Come on.”

John stared back at him for a long moment, expression still blank. Then, with a resigned little sigh, he put the mugs down on the table and rolled his shoulders a little. 

Sherlock had told himself that he was fully prepared for any possibility, but when _it_ actually happened his mouth suddenly went very dry. They unfurled from John’s back very gracefully, almost without any sound save from the gentle rustle of feathers, unfolding seemingly from nothing but finishing almost long enough to sweep along the floor. As with last night, a soft light seemed to radiate from them, but the longer Sherlock looked the more that light began to fade, until eventually he could see the distinct shapes of all of the feathers, which were grey-white in colour. John looked markedly uncomfortable at Sherlock’s scrutiny, shifting his weight from foot to foot with his hands clasped together. Sherlock took a step closer, lifting a hand as though to reach out and touch them, but then he dropped it again just as suddenly and nodded.

“Explain.”

John opened his mouth and then paused, closing his mouth again and appearing to swallow hard. He picked up his mug of tea again, taking a sip and then cupping his hands around the warm cup- clearly for comfort more than the warmth.

“Explain,” Sherlock prompted, again. “I remember you saying that you would. Go on.”

“It’s not that easy,” John eventually managed with a grimace. “I’ve never _had_ to explain this before. I’d kind of hoped that your mind would stay blank a little longer, give me some time to think about what I’d actually say, but, well. You _are_ Sherlock Holmes. Should have guessed that _that_ would never happen.”

John smiled. Sherlock didn’t. John’s smile quickly slipped and then he took another sip of tea. The wings were drawn up tight against his back, making it even more obvious just how tense and uncomfortable he was about the entire situation. Sherlock _did_ care about that, but the desire to slake his thirst for the promised explanation came first.

“Come on then,” John said with another little sigh. “Get your tea. This’ll probably go easier if we sit down.”

Sherlock thought about scoffing at the suggestion of tea, but then realised that arguing with John about it would only delay the process further and so simply walked over and picked up his mug without a word, settling down into his armchair a few moments later as John did the same (well, he perched rather than settled) in the chair opposite. Sherlock noticed how he spread his wings out to the sides so that he could sit more comfortably, and instantly his mind started firing questions at him; did they exist even when Sherlock couldn’t perceive them? Had John _always_ had to accommodate for them like that when he sat down? Did he ever knock things over with them? Did he –

“Alright, stop, I can practically _hear_ you thinking, Sherlock. Are you going to let me explain, or what?”

Sherlock put his mug down on the floor and then leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and lightly placing his fingertips together. He emptied his mind as much as he possibly could, shutting out the cacophony of unanswered questions for the time being. He nodded slightly to indicate that John should continue, trying to maintain an ‘I’m all ears’ expression. 

John took a breath, steeled himself, and then spoke.

“I’m your guardian angel.”

Sherlock blinked, and John tried to grin again with a little shrug of the shoulders. Sherlock sat up straight, and then leaned forward again, and then leant back in his chair, his body seeming to physically represent the turmoil in his mind for a moment. When it seemed like he had finally settled he suddenly leant forwards again, clasping his hands firmly together with a loud _clap_. 

“Explain,” he repeated, again. John looked bemused.

“What do you want me to –”

“Oh, come off it John. ‘I’m your guardian angel’ is hardly a _comprehensive_ explanation, now is it? A neat little statement that gives me the barest bones of one, maybe, but it’s not nearly enough. I need details, facts, more information.” He paused. “Please.”

John briefly closed his eyes, drawing his wings in again and tapping his fingernails against the ceramic of the mug in his hands. Sherlock waited, not exactly patiently but with the attempt of appearing so, for John to gather himself, and attempted to focus on not letting his mind rebel at the absurdity of what was happening. It was, however, incredibly difficult to apply the theory of Occam’s razor to the situation when it clearly fit into the category of ‘impossible’.

“I’m an angel,” John finally said, still very hesitantly. “Now, _real_ angels aren’t the ‘souls of dead people’ or anything like that, you’ll probably be pleased to hear; we’re people too, just of a different sort. We guide and protect those deemed in need of our service. In this case, that obviously means you. Only you’re never supposed to find out about this sort of thing.” John frowned heavily and had a large gulp of tea, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed it down. “So something’s gone wrong there.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Explain how, exactly, you are meant to be ‘guiding’ and ‘protecting’ me.”

“Ah.” John grinned a little. “Like, you know. Acting as a moral compass, a voice in your ear, ‘let your conscience be your guide’. That sort of thing.” Sherlock looked blank. John rolled his eyes. “Pinocchio? The Disney film? No? Anyway… that, and protection. Keeping you safe, like with what happened yesterday. Things like preventing you from getting killed falls pretty heavily in that category, I’d say.”

Sherlock snorted; his opinion on that instance of “protection” was very clear. 

“The wings,” he then said, tone even enough to be almost clinical. “Merely for aesthetic value, or do they have a practical use as well?” 

“You mean, can I fly?” John asked with another grin. Sherlock merely nodded. “How do you think I got you home last night?”

Sherlock’s eyes momentarily widened, and then his face contorted into a frown. 

“What did you do – when you placed your hands on my head?”

At least John had the grace to look a little guilty.

“Oh, that. I guess you could say it’s one of my… abilities. Don’t worry, I didn’t wipe anything out. I just put you to sleep.”

Sherlock was immediately alarmed, so much so that he got to his feet and took a step closer to John so that he was looking down at him. John cringed a little, wings tightening even further at his back, as he tried to return Sherlock’s gaze.

“Have you ever done that?” Sherlock demanded. “Wiped anything from my mind? Have you ‘put me to sleep’ before?”

“God, Sherlock. No, I haven’t! I’ve never had to before! Not that I haven’t wanted to –” Sherlock’s glare intensified and John quickly stammered on. “– The _sleeping_ thing, Sherlock, not the wiping one! I’d never do _that_ to you. It’d be a _huge_ breach of protocol, anyway.” 

“Then why do you even _have_ the ability?” Sherlock pressed on, seemingly unconvinced, leaning down closer to John so that his face was only inches away. John’s own expression hardened and his eyes narrowed slightly.

“It’s a safety precaution. We’re _supposed_ to use it if an unauthorised human finds out about us.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“And am I ‘authorised’, or not?”

“No, you’re not.”

Sherlock made a soft noise – surprise with a hint of confusion.

“Explain why you haven’t used this precaution, then.”

“Because I trust you, Sherlock. You should know that, if anything.”

There was a pause, a moment of silence that stretched on into the territory of awkward whilst Sherlock remained standing with his face almost pressed up against John’s. Then, something seemed to click in Sherlock’s mind and he nodded, very minutely, before backing off and resettling in his chair. John visibly relaxed, deflating slightly and letting his wings unfurl again. The silence stretched on and John picked up his mug only to find that it was empty, so he ended up putting it straight back down again. Eventually, it was Sherlock who broke the silence with a quietly murmured question:

“Would you object to my… touching them? Your… wings.”

It was not what John had been expecting to hear, but in hindsight he realised that this moment had probably been coming all along. He smiled, very softly, and then nodded, getting to his feet.

“Yeah, just give me a second. You’ll probably want to see how everything joins up, right?”

“That would be preferable, yes.”

Without another word, John folded his wings back in as tight against his back as he could manage. Then, he tugged his jumper up and over his head and was about to just throw it down onto the armchair when Sherlock held his hand out for it. John obligingly handed it over to him, and then began to work on undoing the buttons of his shirt. Whilst he was doing that, Sherlock turned the jumper over in his hands and then wonderingly drew his fingers along the vertical slits that were in the back. They had been cut into the fabric, obviously to accommodate for John’s wings, and yet they had remained completely unnoticed by Sherlock. 

“It’s another ability of ours,” John said, trying to be helpful as he shrugged out of the shirt. He held it up so that Sherlock could see that slits were cut into the back of it as well before throwing it down onto the armchair behind him. “Don’t ask me to explain how it works, because I really don’t know the science behind it all, but basically we can alter your perceptions and stop people from realising what’s really there. Like… redirecting light with mirrors, I guess.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said in reply, putting the jumper down on the arm of his chair and then getting to his feet, giving John a critical, appraising look as his eyes swept along his shoulders and torso. John tried to not feel self-conscious, but that was a little difficult considering he was starting to feel like he was one of Sherlock’s experiments. “Turn, please.”

John did as he was asked; rotating on the spot so that his back was now facing Sherlock. Even though he knew what was coming, he was unable to prevent the gasp and flinch as Sherlock’s firm, long-fingered hands firmly took hold of one of his wings and gently spread it outwards. John closed his eyes and swallowed hard, and Sherlock paused in his actions.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and there was genuine concern in his voice.

“Yeah,” John said, perhaps a little breathlessly. “I just – this hasn’t happened before. Touching. It’s a bit weird.”

“I can stop.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Sherlock didn’t move for a moment longer, as though gauging the sincerity of John’s words, before he apparently deemed them as truth and continued with his explorations. He sifted his fingers through the feathers, categorising and comparing them to the various types of bird wings he had studied, and then investigated the ridge of muscle that supported them along the top. He tugged the wing just a little harder, indicating that John should spread it fully outwards, and once he did Sherlock walked alongside of it, obviously calculating its length. He then let John fold it back in again and returned to his back, noting with some interest that there was a slight difference in muscle structure in the more “human” areas of John – they were clearly stronger so that they could support the additional weight of the wings. His hands briefly smoothed over the area where the two aspects of John’s anatomy merged together, and Sherlock marvelled at the seamless transition between skin and feather.

And then, finally, Sherlock found that his hands were drifting towards the knot of scar tissue at the back of John’s shoulder. It was an area that he had often wanted to study in more detail before now, but had never found the opportunity to do so. It was curious that it had captured his attention now, when there was something _much_ more interesting to be investigating, but capture his attention it most certainly did. 

“So angels are not impervious to harm, then,” he observed, but his tone was very quiet, almost gentle, as he lightly drew one fingertip along the diameter of John’s scar. John shivered at the touch and then pulled away slightly, breaking contact with Sherlock and, he assumed, ending the physical exploratory session.

“Like I said, we’re just a different kind of people. We can still be hurt, and killed, by all of the same things that hurt and kill humans,” John said, just a little bitterly, as he turned around to face Sherlock again. A shadow then crossed his face and he looked downwards, taking in a small breath. “Except…”

“Yes?” Sherlock pressed, obviously keen to take in as much information about this situation as possible. 

John let out the breath again in a slow stream of air, and then grit his teeth a little, looking uncomfortable all over again.

“Angels are… we tend to be… a bit – longer-lived, than humans are.”

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

“A bit?” he repeated. “Elaborate.” 

John slowly sat down in his chair again, hands clasped on his knees, and instinct told Sherlock that he should do the same. He was terse, waiting with rising suspicion for John’s answer though warning bells began to go off in his head. He was suddenly absolutely positive that he would not like what John was about to say.

“I have lived,” John began, very hesitantly. “For approximately four hundred and eighty-eight years, now.”

Sherlock’s eyes shut and his body went impeccably still as his mind processed (or rather, tried to process) this new information. Somehow, that was the thing that started to unravel the threads of reality that he had worked so hard to maintain since John’s true nature had been revealed. Somehow, it had been easier for his mind to cope with the idea that John had wings and could fly and could send him to sleep with a touch and could manipulate reality around him and that he wasn’t even _human_ than it was to accept the idea that he had been in the world for almost five centuries. Or rather, _that_ was the fact that cemented the idea that John was fundamentally _different_ to him in ways that he could not comprehend no matter how much energy he dedicated towards studying the matter.

“And how many,” Sherlock said, pointedly ignoring the slight crack in his voice. “People have you played “guardian angel” to, in that time?”

“Five,” John said, as evenly as he could. “There have been five before you.”

“And after I’m gone,” Sherlock continued, and John actually shivered at how cold his voice had become. “Will you simply move onto number seven? The next charge in your long, long line of _duty_?”

“Sherlock,” John instantly protested, devastated. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, is it not?” Sherlock replied, his eyes opening in a flash as he rose to his feet again in one swift, sharp movement. “Allow me to deduce the facts for you, _angel_ John Watson. Your previous charge was a man in the military, which lead you to take up your own position there as well. Being a man fundamentally interested in keeping people or, more specifically, one _person_ safe, you took up the profession of a medic rather than that of the infantry so that you could carry on in your noble role of _protection_. And then, what? Your charge got shot and then you did too in the attempt of saving him? Or perhaps you were injured first and then _he_ died because you weren’t there for him. Either way, you left Afghanistan unable to continue with your fake job and without the essential element of your _true_ role. So you… ah. Mike Stamford. He is either an angel himself or one of those ‘authorised’ humans you mentioned earlier. He was the connection; he was how you came to learn about me. And so, lucky you – you found another hopeless stray to take under your _wing_.”

John had gotten markedly paler during Sherlock’s rant, his wings drooping so low down that they were now draped loosely over the arms of the chair. He’d seen people bearing the full brunt of Sherlock’s tirades before and had either agreed with him or chided him afterwards (or both) but never once had John been in that position himself. It was, to be completely honest, absolutely terrifying.

“Sherlock!” John said with a gasp, deeply hurt. “That’s _not_ what it was like! I didn’t become a doctor just for the sake of joining the Army. I’ve _always_ been a doct –”

“Fine, good. Like that was the most pressing issue in my deductions. Did I get anything _else_ wrong?” Sherlock snapped. “Admit it, John. You’re here because you _have_ to be here, because it’s your _job_. If not me, then you would have found somebody else to play knight for. Yes?”

John got to his feet, his eyes alight with anger, his wings snapping out either side of him at full extension, knocking the mug off of the table in the process and smashing it to the floor. Not that that really mattered right now. 

“Sherlock, _stop it_.”

“I don’t need another _counsellor_ or a _guide_ or a fucking _angel_ , John. I need –”

Sherlock stopped, mid-sentence, shook his head minutely and then turned heel and walked straight for his bedroom without so much as a glance backwards. Once inside, he closed (closed, not slammed) the door shut. There was a distinct little _click_ as he slid the lock into place.

\---

As soon as Sherlock closed the door behind him, he crossed the floor to his bed and jumped on top of it, settling down into a cross-legged position in one smooth, fluid movement. Almost as though in meditation, he closed his eyes and rested his wrists atop of his knees, working hard to control his breathing as it had become slightly erratic along with his rising heart rate. He could hear John bustling about in the living room (tidying up the mess he’d made, no doubt) and could not stop the brief frown from twitching across his face.

_John_.

With a few deep, steady breaths Sherlock cleared his mind and reduced all of his emotions down to the barest minimum. He could not allow feelings to cloud his thought process as they had, unfortunately, started to during the argument. Feelings just made everything so much more complicated than it really needed to be.

He was momentarily distracted again with John’s sudden announcement, which he caught even though it hardly had its usual volume and then ignored.

Good, he was alone.

Sherlock stayed where he was, breathing and emptying and thinking. He didn’t quite enter his “Mind Palace”, but he reached a similar state, cutting off all outside thought and keeping his mind _within_ , concentrating on processing the information he’d already gathered without trying to obtain more. 

Had he overreacted? No, he instantly dismissed that notion. He told himself that his reaction had in fact been mild, even, considering what he had just found out about his flatmate. He wasn’t even _human_ , for God’s sake, he was an almost five-hundred year old _angel_ that had wings and could fly and use various other special abilities.

And he was only here because he had to be.

There was an unusual tightening sensation in Sherlock’s throat which he worked quickly to quash. His emotions were getting the better of him again, which was absolutely unacceptable. 

But also completely unavoidable, as he soon found.

What he’d said during the Baskerville case, about John being his one friend, had all been completely true. It was possibly even the truest thing Sherlock had ever spoken, which was a real achievement considering his entire life was dedicated towards _finding_ truth in the first place.

But John wasn’t his friend, not really. He had never come to live with Sherlock for the purposes of friendship, and even though that hadn’t exactly been on Sherlock’s mind either when he’d first started looking for a flatmate it had happened nonetheless. Or so he’d thought. It was practically the same as when Mycroft had persuaded (bullied and cajoled, really) him into visiting all of those counsellors and therapists over the years. Only it was somehow worse. John _existed_ to keep people on the right path; he didn’t even do it out of his own good nature. It was his _purpose_ in life. 

And even if their friendship _was_ real, did it even matter? John would (life-threatening circumstances excused) outlive Sherlock by many years, thanks to the long-lived nature of his _kind_. John would _have_ to move on from him, find somebody else. He would possibly even forget him, one day.

That was an unbearable thought.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock snapped irritably, eyes flashing open. This was useless; he’d come to the solitude of his room for some quiet contemplation on the _facts_ of what he had been told and deduced, not go in circles over the nature of his and John’s relationship. It was ridiculously distracting, and was starting to make him feel irritated all over again. He needed a hit, the kind of oblivion that only cocaine could provide, but that was all in the past, now. He didn’t even have the smallest pinch of the stuff. Nicotine patches were an extremely poor substitute, but they would have to do.

Rising from his sitting position, Sherlock thumped down off of the bed and pulled open the top drawer of his bedside table, fetching out a small box and thumbing it open. He yanked out three of the patches, briefly considered a fourth, and then flicked the box shut again, dropping it carelessly back into the drawer and nudging it shut with his hip as he walked away. 

He left his bedroom and headed straight for the sofa in the living room, flopping down onto it and tugging his sleeve upwards. One, two, three. The nicotine entered his system and gave him a pleasant little buzz. It was nothing in comparison to cocaine (it barely even matched a real cigarette) but his mind calmed a fraction and he began to relax, letting his weight sink into the chair.

A buzz in his pocket announced the arrival of a text message and within a moment the phone was in Sherlock’s hand.

_Any news? –Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The little case seemed so incredibly dull after everything that had happened in its wake, but closure was closure.

_Harrison is your man. Don’t bother me with something so simple in the future. -SH_

It was a step in the direction of normality, but Sherlock still didn’t feel right; nothing felt right.

He had to think.

\---

John wandered aimlessly for a good, long time. He didn’t have anywhere concrete in mind to go, he just hopped on and off of the Tube, made his way through the bustling crowds, and tried to lose himself in the rush and the energy of London in the afternoon. This, however, was more than a little difficult considering that he kept on seeing other angels also walking the streets, and their very appearance continually reminded him of his own nature and the predicament he’d found himself in. He still nodded and smiled politely at those he passed, but his heart gave a lurch as he instinctively picked out those they were protecting. There wasn’t an angel for every human, there was barely even one for every _several thousand_ humans, but it seemed like all of those who lived in London were out and about on this mild afternoon.

John was the only angel walking alone today.

Almost without thinking, John descended towards the Tube again (he usually avoided it for the sake of his wings, but the urge to surround himself with the life and noise of humans was too strong to ignore) at the next station he came across and boarded a train. Still letting instinct lead him, he got off again after several stops and went back up to street level. As John stepped outside, he paused and blinked with surprise – he’d ended up in the neighbourhood where his sister, Harry, lived.

Apparently she was going to be in for a surprise visit.

The streets were much quieter here, and John let his wings spread out a little further from either side of his body. He walked down the street, eyes continually flicking towards the numbers on the doors as he did – twenty-nine, thirty-one, thirty-three, thirty-five. John paused for a brief moment as he mentally confirmed that, yes, Harry did live at number thirty-five and then he strolled towards the door. The moment when he started knocking was obviously the wrong time to start contemplating over whether she’d actually be _in_ her house, but he knocked all the same and then took a half-step backwards to wait and see if he could hear anyone.

He wasn’t disappointed, or was that the right word? He’d barely even _spoken_ to Harry since he’d moved in at Baker Street (the occasional chat on his blog didn’t really count, in his opinion) and then there was the fact that they’d _argued_ the last time they’d spoken face to –

A sudden flare of panic that only his sister could induce rolled through John, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to walk away as fast as he possibly could, but it was far, far too late.

“Oh, John,” Harry said, obviously surprised but not negatively so. She blinked, and then her expression briefly flickered into something a bit darker. “Don’t tell me that mad detective of yours has kicked you out?”

“No, no, nothing like that. Well, not really.”

John looked a bit uncomfortable, his wings tightening even as Harry’s extended outwards a little, the longest of the mottled black feathers brushed against the wall of her hallway. She crinkled her nose and then tossed her head a little, indicating the space behind her with the motion.

“Think you’d better come in, then. You’ve obviously got something to get off your chest.”

John flashed her a smile that consisted largely of relief, and was gratified when she smiled in return before turning on her heels and heading back indoors. Perhaps she’d already forgotten how they’d “talked” last time or she’d forgiven him, at least. He followed her inside, closing the door behind him and heading straight for the living room. 

“Park your bum on the sofa, I’ll grab us something to drink,” Harry said with a wave of the hand before she disappeared into the kitchen.

Wariness instantly twisted John’s features as he sat down on the edge of the seat. The word “drink” never sounded quite right to him when it was his sister who was saying it. His wings rustled slightly as he tried very hard not to listen _too_ carefully for the clink of glass or a wine or beer bottle. He was so very pointedly _not_ listening, however, that he very nearly jumped out of his seat when Harry’s face reappeared around the door, looking a little sheepish.

“You didn’t _want_ a beer, did you?” she asked, albeit reluctantly. “Because all I’ve got is orange juice, squash, milk… oh, and tea or coffee, of course.”

John blinked.

“Tea would be fine,” he replied, perhaps just as hesitantly as her. Harry’s expression brightened and she nodded before disappearing once again. A few seconds later John could hear the very distinct _clink_ … of mugs. And then the rumbling of a kettle followed soon after. Despite all of those tell-tale signs, John couldn’t prevent himself from grinning a bit as Harry re-emerged from the kitchen with a mug in each hand, and he could tell from the slight flush on her cheeks that she was doing her best not to grin as well.

“Here you are. Tea, no sugar, splash of milk. That’s it. Scout’s honour.”

“You were never a Scout,” John said with a laugh as he accepted his mug. “That was me.”

“Yeah, but I would’ve been a better one. Did you know they let girls in now? About bloody time.”

Harry flopped down into the armchair opposite the sofa, nearly spilling tea all over herself as she did. Now that she’d stopped whipping about from one place to another, John could finally focus on his sister. She looked much brighter, happier – healthier. He began to smile. 

“You really have quit this time, haven’t you?” he asked, with genuine warmth and surprise in his voice after he took a sip of tea. 

“Haven’t touched a drop since… well, since our little spat,” Harry replied, her pride bright and obvious in her eyes and the way she seemed so confident about herself. “Made a bit too much of a prat out of myself, I think. And I miss being a guardian.”

John grimaced and set his mug down on the coffee table.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that Harry. I just –”

“No, no,” she said quickly, waving a hand and once again nearly up-ending her mug. “Don’t apologise, John. It took a while, but the message sunk into this thick skull of mine eventually. I’m done.”

“Good. No, really. I’m really pleased for you, Harry. Keep it up and you’ll be on duty again in no time.”

He said it brightly enough, but Harry’s eyes instantly noticed how his wings tightened. It was a little more difficult for angels to hide their emotions from one-another, when they were so often physically realised by the feathered appendages on their backs.

“Okay, so the mad detective might not have kicked you out, but you wouldn’t be here unless he’d _really_ pissed you off. What’s going on, then?”

John sighed and pushed a hand through his hair, unable to meet his sister’s eyes for a long moment. To give her some credit, she actually gave him a moment to think things through, but then, she’d never been an especially _patient_ person, so once that moment was up she was soon speaking again.

“John? Come on, what’s he done?”

“I – He knows,” John finally said, wincing a bit. Harry sat bolt upright, and this time some of the tea actually _did_ spill on her lap.

“Oh, _bollocks_ ,” she hissed, flapping at the hot liquid as she set the mug down on the table. “What do you mean, he _knows_? Don’t tell me the clever bugger actually figured it out for himself, that’s impossible!” she went on, hurriedly dabbing at the stain with a sleeve as John sat there torn between getting up to help her and hiding his face in his hands.

“I don’t know how it happened,” he said with a groan. “We were – you know, on a case. Then the suspect bloody rushed at us and he had a gun, so I only sodding tackled Sherlock to the ground and – well. He could _see_ them. And I swore I’d never do anything to tamper with Sherlock’s mind, so I just took him home, and –”

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait,” Harry said in a befuddled rush, holding up both of her hands (one of which had a tea-soaked sleeve) and shaking her head. “Slow down, John. Christ. So you obviously just lost concentration when you tackled Sherlock –”

“That was _my_ first thought,” John interrupted with a shake of the head. “But it wasn’t the first time I’ve had to rush in and save his life like that. Why would that one occasion be any different?”

“Hmm…” Harry said gently, spreading out her wings and leaning back in the armchair slightly, looking quizzical as she tried to puzzle out the situation. 

John had known as soon as he’d arrived on her street that she would be the best person to talk to about this; someone like Mike Stamford (who was, as it happened, one of those authorised humans rather than an angel) would have been sympathetic in listening to John’s dilemma, but would have likely just strongly suggested that John clear Sherlock’s mind completely of the entire incident. Which John refused to do. Harry, on the other hand, was hardly the poster child for following the rules, and instead was there on hand to help John in exactly the way he _wanted_ to be helped. 

Together, they mulled in silence over the problem, the pair of them turning over explanations and ideas in the attempt of finding one that fit. Suddenly, something clicked in John’s mind and he leant forwards slightly in his chair and his eyes widened a little. Harry blinked.

“What? What is it? Have you thought of what it could be?”

John hesitated, closed his eyes briefly, and then began to speak.

“Think, Harry. What’s the one thing that could cause something like this to happen?”

Harry’s face looked blank for a moment as thought about what John had said and what relevance it could possibly have, but then it came to her in a flash. She gasped, her hands flying to her face (it was lucky that her mug of tea was safely on the table, otherwise it would have most certainly gone flying again) and her skin went a little bit pale.

“Oh John, no. You haven’t? I was only joking, all of those times before. Just banter, a little bit a fun –You _haven’t_?” 

A heavy silence fell as John and Harry stared at one-another, both in varying stages of growing realisation and mild horror. John rubbed his face with his hands, massaging the skin beneath his eyes with his fingertips and sighing deeply. Harry began to shake her head in clear disbelief, and after a few more moments of the silence ticked on by she began to laugh, quietly at first, but then getting steadily louder and slightly more hysterical. John dropped his hands and looked at her again, frowning heavily.

“And what, exactly, is so bloody funny? I’m screwed, Harry, and you’re _laughing_?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” his sister wheezed as she continued to laugh, obviously not very sorry at all. “It’s just… I can’t believe it, John. All these years you’ve been saying that you’re not gay, and then you go and fall for him – _him_ of all people!”

“I’m _not_ gay,” John insisted, still frowning and then folding his arms. “I’m – God, I don’t know, Harry. You know I’ve never really liked putting labels on things. But that’s not really the point, and you know it. What the hell am I supposed to do? I _can’t_ be… you know.” He raised his eyebrows in a significant fashion and Harry pursed her lips as she tried to suppress her giggles before nodding to show that she understood. “It’s… not allowed,” John finished, a little weakly.

“Oh, please,” Harry said with a roll of the eyes. “You’re a good man, John, but you’ve never been a stickler for the rules. And it’s like you said; that rule only exists to stop exposition from happening in the first place and… well, it’s far too late to fix that if you’re so determined to not wipe his mind. So I don’t really see the problem.”

John looked offended at first, but this quickly transformed into worry as Harry continued to speak. He groaned and flopped back against the sofa, wings resting loose and boneless at either side of his body as the implications of what had happened seemed to finally sink in. Their mugs of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table as they fell into another brief silence whilst John desperately tried to think through his options. 

“I can’t… I can’t just go and tell him, Harry. When he found out about some of the things to do with angels, he got a bit… well, he got really pissed off.”

Harry instantly stiffened.

“So he _did_ kick you out? I’ll kill the bast –”

“No Harry, seriously, he didn’t kick me out. I needed some air, so I left to get some.”

“Hmm.” Harry didn’t look entirely convinced, but she relaxed a little. “So what was the final straw, then, if he didn’t run a mile as soon as he saw your wings? The mind stuff? The – oh, let me guess. Self-centred git that he is, it was the guardian thing wasn’t it? The fact that he’s not been the only one?”

John sighed. His sister could be far too intuitive for her own good, sometimes. 

“Something like that. There was the long-lived thing as well, I think. He didn’t seem too happy about that either.”

Harry’s eyes lit up and she smiled rather brightly. 

“Oh, John. Don’t you see? He got pissed off because he cares about you, too.”

“Yeah, right. Harry; Sherlock’s pretty much infamous for his ability to do the exact bloody opposite of caring. The first meal we had together he point-blank told me that he’s “married to his work”, so how the hell did you work that one out?”

“Because he was fine with everything right up until that point, right? Until he found out that he wasn’t the first person you’ve been with like that, and that you were probably going to outlive him. It’s pretty obvious, John; he doesn’t want to lose you.”

John’s eyes widened and he blinked several times as he considered this new idea.

“What? No, really? It can’t be _that_ simple, Harry.”

“Yes it can, John. Humans aren’t as complicated as they’d like to think they are – not even Sherlock Holmes can be _completely_ immune to feelings. And us angels aren’t that complicated, either. Without the wings and the powers and shit we’d be exactly the same as them, anyway. So come on, up you get.”

At this, Harry sprung to her feet (with the assistance of a flap of her wings) and reached her hands out to John, tugging him up into a standing position. He continued to look thoroughly bewildered even as she pushed him towards the hallway.

“I – what? What are you doing, Harry?”

“ _You_ are going back to Baker Street to tell that lunatic detective of yours that you’re in _looove_ with him.”

\---

It was nearly four when John finally arrived back at Baker Street. With his wings pressed tight up against his back, he tried to soothe the knot of worry that was twisting and coiling in the pit of his stomach with a few, deep breaths, but it was absolutely no use. His heart was fluttering in his chest and he felt like he was about to go and meet his first charge all over again… only much worse, for some reason.

Briefly closing his eyes so that he could summon one last jolt of mental courage, John let himself into the building and headed upstairs as normally as possible. There was no point trying to lighten his footsteps, because Sherlock would be able to tell it was him from the pattern of his ascent or something ridiculous-sounding like that. He briefly turned the key over in his hand before unlocking the door to their flat and opening the door and walking inside, pushing it shut again behind him.

“Sherlock…?” he called out, and was greeted with silence. He took in a slow breath and set the keys down on the side, hanging up his coat and heading into the living room. There was Sherlock, sitting in his armchair, unreadable as stone. John rubbed his hands together and attempted a smile, but it soon died when he didn’t even get the flicker of an expression from him. “Look…” he said with a heavy sigh, remaining stood where he was; a good few paces away from Sherlock. “I’m sorry. It’s perfectly understandable why you reacted like you did; I mean, up until now you didn’t even know my species _existed_ , and it’s a lot to take in all at once, and there’s a lot more that I need to explain to you, and…”

John then realised that he’d started babbling, and petered out when he noticed that Sherlock’s face hadn’t so much as twitched the entire time he’d been speaking. John started again, trying to be more focused with his words:

“I mean, this is a totally new experience for me as well, and surely you appreciate that? I’ve never had to explain what I am to anybody else before, and I’m aware that I probably didn’t cover things as well as I should have done so there was a bit of a misunderstanding. I didn’t mean to hurt you, or make you feel like our relationship doesn’t mean anything, and I…”

Still nothing from Sherlock. John started rubbing his hands together again, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. He licked his lips, hating how his words were failing him, and grimaced.

“Look, what I’m trying to say is that I feel like shit over the way you reacted, because I...”  
But he couldn’t say it; the words just dried up and died in his mouth. He awkwardly cleared his throat with a little cough, falling silent. Sherlock blinked slowly, and then finally began to speak.

“I completely agree. Nothing was clarified or explained nearly satisfactorily enough. You skimmed over the barest bones of information, trying to give me a general picture rather than sitting down and telling me _everything_ in a clear and comprehendible manner. That, I believe, is where the main problem was formed as it allowed me to draw far too many conclusions before I had obtained all of the facts, and for that I apologise.”

He paused, looking briefly uncomfortable, but John was too shell-shocked to even utter a word before he was speaking again.

“Secondly, I do understand how it may have been difficult for you to vocalise an explanation in the first place, having never been required to before, and I said some things which I do regret, even if they were all true. Especially the accusation that you were only here because it was your job. I know that it might be technically correct, but it was still quite, mmm, spiteful of me to actually vocalise that. So yes, I believe I am sorry for that too.”

Another moment of silence, but John was too busy licking his lips and looking completely bemused to reply.

“And lastly, though my reaction was quite natural considering my discovery, and possibly even milder than it may have been from somebody else, I am sorry for shouting at you. You are extremely important to me, John, both as a friend and moral compass, and the very thought that you were here to _work_ than for any sentimental reason made me very angry. As does the idea that the extent of our partnership is measured by my lifespan rather than something I can control or change.”

He got to his feet, closing the gap between himself and John with a few, short strides so that he was standing perhaps half a foot away from him. John was still stuck on mute and could do little else but stare up at Sherlock blankly. Sherlock’s expression, on the other hand, softened considerably, and when he next spoke the tone of his voice had dropped to something decidedly more intimate. 

“I can’t lose you, John Watson. Not like that.”

The next moment, Sherlock was leaning forwards and pressing his lips to John’s in a gentle kiss. His eyes fluttered shut, but John’s opened wide with shock and even though he wanted to react he just _couldn’t_. The kiss only lasted a few moments, after which Sherlock broke away with a frown on his face and a soft sigh.

“I have wanted to do that for some time now, and the realisation of my own mortality in comparison to yours was the final push required. But of course, judging by your reaction, the feelings are not mutual. That doesn’t matter, I just wanted to make everything abundantly clear to you on how much I value y –”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

The moment Sherlock had stopped kissing him, something had just _clicked_ for John. If he just remained standing there and staring, he was running the risk of making them both look like complete idiots and losing the opportunity to admit his own feelings. Now it was John’s turn to lean forwards, lifting up on the balls of his feet so that he could press their lips together once again. Sherlock remained still for only a split second before he began to eagerly respond, wrapping his long arms around John so that he could pull them closer together. John’s wings unfurled, lifting up and around Sherlock to encase the pair of them in the gently rustling feathers as he continued to kiss him with steadily rising disbelief.

John had come to Baker Street fully expecting his admission of feelings for Sherlock to be completely dismissed, possibly with even worse consequences and further arguments. Naturally, he much preferred what had actually happened over his increasingly more panicked imaginings, and still couldn’t quite believe that he’d gotten an _apology_ (three, in fact!) from Sherlock Holmes. 

Somehow that was even more disorientating than the actual kissing.

They eventually broke apart again, both wearing slightly dazed smiles. John slowly lowered his wings again, noticing how Sherlock’s eyes followed their movements almost hungrily; clearly his interest in them had been thoroughly rekindled now that he wasn’t angry anymore. John’s smile turned a bit more knowing, but then he neatly sidestepped Sherlock and headed into the living room with a contented sigh. Sherlock spun on his heels and then followed suit, hands clasped together and with a bit of a spring in his step.

“As delighted as I am by this revelation, the fact that you are going to outlive me is still a bit of a problem.”

“Sherlock –”

“And of course the very _idea_ that you will have to move on afterwards is completely unacceptable.”

“Sherlock –”

“And I’d like some form of complete assurance that you will never attempt to wipe my –”

“Sherlock!” John finally snapped, sitting down heavily in his armchair with a roll of the eyes.

“What, John? These are all perfectly founded concerns, and I –”

“Yeah, I know, and we’re going to talk about them, okay? But there’re couple of things that we need to talk about first, before we get into all of that. You said you wanted a more comprehensive explanation, and I’m going to try and provide one. So could you please just sit down or something?”

Sherlock fell silent, lifting one eyebrow for a moment of contemplation before he shrugged his slender shoulders and then slumped ungracefully down into his own chair with a lazy wave of the hand.

“Then by all means John, do continue,” he said with a slow smile. John was relieved. He clearly had Sherlock’s undivided attention, judging by the way he was insisting on maintaining eye contact and clasping his hands together with a slight forward inclination of his upper body. Sherlock knew just how to make somebody feel like they were being listened to, that what they had to say was important to him and it was working on John, as it always did. 

“Right,” John said with a slow exhale of breath, ruffling his wings slightly as he settled down in his seat. “Okay, so. The first thing you’ve got to understand is that my true identity is still a complete secret, got that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Of course.”

“Good, okay. So do you think you’ll be able to act as though you can’t see my wings when we’re out in public, or am I going to have to try and hide them from you again?”

Sherlock made a disparaging noise.

“John, you know that my acting skills will be _more_ than adequate enough for such a simple task. And besides, I would rather that you were completely honest with me from this point onwards, if you please.” He pursed his lips with a pointed expression, and John flinched with a grimace. “Really now, John, everything you’ve said so far just seems despairingly obvious. I’d much rather we just skipped all of this and went straight back to the kissing again, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock smiled again and John could swear that there was an air of mischievousness to it this time. He tried his best to look stern, but found that very difficult to accomplish when Sherlock’s expression started shifting towards downright suggestive.

“In so many words, yes I would, and you bloody well know it, but just hear me out for a couple more minutes, wouldn’t _you_? What we’re doing, whatever this is, what it’s going to be – it’s not exactly… allowed, according to the rules.”

“Hm. Are relationships of a sexual or romantic nature not permitted between humans and angels?”

John blinked a bit at the bluntness of Sherlock’s statement, but quickly recovered.

“Uhm, ah, not _all_ humans and angels, just –”

“Oh, I see. Just humans and their _guardian angels_ , correct?”

“Yeah. It’s all to do with exposure; angels need to dedicate some of their conscious energy to keeping their true appearance hidden from humans, and having… feelings for their charges apparently gets in the way of that a bit.”

“But engaging in relationships with humans that you are _not_ charged to protect does not affect this?” Sherlock asked with a bit of a cynical frown. John shrugged.

“Speaking on a personal basis, I’ve never actually fallen in l – had feelings for a human before. Not strong enough that I lost my concentration because of it, anyway.”

Sherlock seemed more pleased about that than he had any right to be, John thought. His eyes lit up and he seemed to sit up a little higher in his chair, rubbing his hands together a little and grinning from ear to ear. John very nearly rolled his eyes at the little display of elation; of _course_ Sherlock would be stupidly happy over the fact that _he_ had succeeded where many others before him had failed, that _he_ had been an exception in John’s life. 

“Obviously, judging by what happened five minutes ago, I’m more than willing to ignore that rule,” John then went on with a smile, firmly leaving out the “for you” that would have fit very nicely at the end of that sentence. Sherlock’s ego didn’t need any more stroking than it had already had. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed, with a slight purr to his voice. 

“Now, moving onto some of the things you were talking about before. I know you don’t like the fact that I’m going to outlive you, and believe me when I say this that there’s a reason I try not to think about it too much.”

Sherlock’s contented smile immediately slipped and his expression soured, his body gradually sinking into the armchair as his deflated.

“Mmhm,” he said, noncommittally. 

“Honestly,” John insisted, trying to convey his seriousness with a wave of the hands and by leaning forwards a little. “I’ve never liked it. I’ve been alive for over four centuries, Sherlock, and I’ve known and lost a lot of very important people over those years. I don’t think it’ll ever get easier; it hasn’t so far, anyway.” Sherlock remained stonily silent, lips pulled taut. John continued. “And what you said before, about me just being able to ‘move onto’ my next charge. It’s not as easy as that.”

“You moved on from your last one, onto me,” Sherlock said with a frown.

“Yes, but you didn’t really give me the chance to explain everything. I hadn’t really gotten the chance to get especially close to James, I only knew him for about a year before he got... before he died, out in Afghanistan, and before James I’d been without anyone for ten years. After that fiasco, and after getting shot, I didn’t even want to start looking again for a long, long time. I was fully prepared to go black for another ten years after failing James so badly.”

“Go black?” Sherlock repeated.

“Yeah. You notice how my wings are a kind of silvery-white?” John asked, spreading them as if in demonstration. Sherlock nodded. “Well, the colour of an angel’s wings is indicative of their health, as it were. If they go on for too long without somebody to guide and protect, the colour of their wings gradually fades to black, and they start to get sick or depressive. That’s what happened to my sister. She lost her charge through negligence, and then turned to drinking. Her wings went so dark I never thought she’d pull back from it, but thankfully I think she’s finally on the mend.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, interested again and eyeing John’s wings carefully. “So what you’re saying is that an angel _must_ take care of a human, or they begin to sicken?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Interesting. I would describe your race as parasites, but that seems a little…”

John frowned.

“Harsh? Unnecessary?”

“Inaccurate. Parasites generally cause some form of damage to their hosts, but your relationship with humans only brings them supposed benefit in the form of safety and guidance, so I suppose it is closer to being a symbiotic relationship of sorts.”

“If you want to put it _that_ way, I wouldn’t object,” John said, expression brightening.

“However,” Sherlock then went on, and there was a chill to his voice. “I must make it abundantly clear that I still do not like the fact that you will have to, eventually, find somebody after me.” John could swear that Sherlock was pouting. “It makes this entire relationship feel a little pointless.”

“Sherlock!” John snapped, eyes narrowing. “For God’s sake. Our relationship is _not ‘_ pointless’. I said earlier that I hadn’t been ready to move on yet, after James had died. I was reluctant even after Mike said that he’d found the ‘perfect’ match for me. I didn’t feel like I could take care of myself anymore, let alone a human being.”

Sherlock bristled.

“I do _not_ need ‘taking care of’ –”

“ _But_ I went along with him anyway,” John swiftly interrupted, not wanting another argument to kick up. “And it wasn’t until I met you for the first time that I realised I _was_ ready; not because you were some poor, needy bugger who needed me to guide him every step of the way, but because you _didn’t_ need me like that. Sure, you need a bit of a moral push in the right direction sometimes and the danger in our lives requires me to shoot at some idiot or _physically_ push you out of danger every now and then, but you are absolutely like no charge I have ever had before, Sherlock Holmes. I was, _am_ , attracted to you because you didn’t really need a guardian angel, but a friend. I wanted you to need _me_ , because I definitely needed someone like you.”

A silence fell as soon as John, who was breathing a little bit more heavily after his long speech, stopped talking. Sherlock blinked, clasping and unclasping his long fingers and shuffling slightly in his chair as though he could no longer find a comfortable position to fill. John swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously in his throat as he eyed Sherlock and waited for him to say something, anything. He hoped that his miniature emotional outburst hadn’t gone too far into the realm of sentimentality and therefore removed Sherlock’s interest in him.

“I… see,” Sherlock said, very vaguely, after a long minute of silence had ticked on by.

“You… do?” John replied, just as tentatively, raising his eyebrows. 

“Perfectly.”

Sherlock got to his feet, and due to the blank expression on his face John was suddenly terrified that the man was about to walk off and barricade himself in his room again. He desperately thought back over what he’d said, trying to pinpoint what might have upset or angered Sherlock, but his racing thoughts all dissolved into nothing as Sherlock bridged the gap between them with one step, looking down at John from his lofty viewpoint. 

“Sherlock –?” John said, a little hoarsely. “You alright?”

“John Watson,” Sherlock replied, with a theatrical little pause and (John’s heart lightened) a smile. “I have never been better.”

And before John could do anything, Sherlock reached down for his hands and tugged him up into a standing position with one, smooth motion, arms then slipping down to grasp him warmly by the hips as he pulled John into another kiss. This one, as John could immediately tell, was different from the previous two; he was instantly consumed by the spark and energy behind it, almost mindlessly parting his lips as Sherlock did, marvelling at how well they seemed to fit together, how their height differences somehow didn’t get in the way of the tessellation of their bodies.

As Sherlock’s thumbs rubbed at the dips at the sides of John’s hipbones, John lifted his own arms to wrap them around Sherlock’s neck, one hand pushing up the back of his neck so that his fingers could curl in the short locks of hair at the nape. When Sherlock brushed his tongue against John’s bottom lip, John quickly parted his lips a little further in clear invitation, making a noise deep in his throat as he eagerly accepted Sherlock’s tongue into his mouth and the flush of wonderful feelings that it brought along with it deep in the pit of his stomach. 

Sherlock’s hands moved again, sliding along the back of John’s hips to rest, palms flat and fingers lightly gripping, on John’s rear, tugging him a little closer still so that there wasn’t even a sliver of air between them. John continued to push his hand upwards into Sherlock’s hair, tangling his fingers in the ridiculous, dark locks and drawing forth a little murmur of pleasure from him in return. John’s wings rustled at his back, spreading out and then curling inwards again as though he was physically unable to keep them still. 

After a few heady moments of this delicious contact, they finally broke the kiss, greedily taking in large gulps of air whilst still keeping their hands firmly on one-another. John could feel Sherlock’s long, slender fingers pressing into the firm flesh of his rear, and he slipped his own hand down so that he was just cupping the back of his neck. They couldn’t keep their eyes off of one-another. Their pupils were large and their cheeks slightly flushed, and after a few seconds of extended eye-contact they both began to grin a little nervously, both listening to the sounds of each other breathing and the rush of blood in their ears as their hearts continued to beat at a harder pace.

“Can I ask what that –” John began.

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, voice rough and low. Somehow that single word was enough to make the hairs on John’s arms stand on end. “No more explaining. No more _talking_. I’ve heard enough; for today, at least.” 

“Alright,” John said agreeably, still smiling. “So what’re we doing now, then?”

“We,” Sherlock repeated, his voice deliciously low enough once again to make John shiver. “Are going to conduct an experiment, you and I.”

“An experiment?” John replied breathily, feeling heady just from the tone of Sherlock’s voice.

“Mmhm. I, for one, am _very_ interested in seeing how the anatomy of an angel compares to that of a human being. So if you would just like to accompany me to the bedroom, we may begin right away.”


End file.
